Like Real People Do
by Ellie 5192
Summary: Alice and Matthew start to notice each other a little more. They don't have a name for it yet, but do they need one? [What started as a series of prompt-fic and drabbles rapidly took on a universe of its own. Canon-friendly MAlice pre-ship. UST, fluff, h/c and just a smidge of whump. Title from the song of the same name]
1. Chapter 1

_Malice + first time Alice sees Matthew's leg (professortennant)_

 _~0~_

Ballarat isn't like the rest of Australia. There is no desert nearby; no white sandy beaches; even the hills around it are rolling and flat, save for the steady elevation that makes the town that much colder than Melbourne, only an hour away. Ballarat feels the chill the way the north feels humidity; constant, oppressive, and inescapable. The Poms like to settle there because it reminds them so much of home, with the occasional snowfall in winter and a year-long need for a coat.

But there are always a couple weeks of the year, just after Christmas, when the mercury rises above forty degrees Celsius and stays there. Two or three weeks in the whole year to prove they are in fact in Victoria, and not in some distant place in northern Scotland. The town isn't built for a true Australian summer, and just like in the UK, residents escape their insulated houses and wear as little as decently possible, and they walk around with a particular lethargy, willing the unending dry heat to stop.

Her little flat is built of brick and has tiny windows, and offers absolutely no protection from the unyielding sun that beats down on it during the day. So Alice escapes her flat for the cool shade of the Blake home. For some reason the house always stays chilled, nestled between enough tress that it remains in constant shade, which is a battle to heat in winter but a blessed relief in summer. Anyone with a reason to be there is present, sipping Jean's cold lemonade and taking refuge in the shade of the yard, a light summer breeze offering occasional respite.

It's lazy, and decadent. They look like _A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte,_ lounging in the wicker chairs or on a blanket on the grass. She has found a lovely spot on the ground in the shade of a tree, her, Jean and Bill Hobart of all people, playing a game of go-fish on a picnic blanket. Rose reads her book in a chair with the widest brim hat anybody could own, and Lucien has fallen asleep in a white wicker chaise with his newspaper over his face. Matthew walks out the back door, finally off-duty and changed, and she is transfixed for a moment at the sight of him in honest-to-God shorts; khaki green, knee-length, a brown belt to keep them up and keep his white short-sleeve shirt tucked in.

She's not sure she has ever seen _any_ man in shorts. Not a living one, at least.

"Do you have any threes?" asks Bill. She snaps herself out of her trance.

"Go fish"

"Damn" he whispers.

"Language" mutters Matthew out of habit, dragging another seat over towards them to observe their little game. Jean hands him a glass of lemonade that she prepared for him and he nods in thanks as he plonks into his seat and sighs.

His chair is only three feet away from where Alice sits on her blanket.

"Deal you in, boss?" asks Bill. Matthew just waves at him _no_ , and slumps a little, relaxed for the first time in hours.

Alice tries not to look, but with his leg so close she takes a peak from the corner of her eye. There is one long scar, deep and unforgiving, that runs almost clean around his leg just under the knee. The repairs to his femoral artery and the stitching of his ligaments and muscles were all done via that gaping hole in his leg, and it shows. Lucien stitched him well, she can see; neat and even, the mark of a skilled surgeon. But it's still a sizable wound, the damage underneath permanent, and it glistens in the sun, peaking out under the seam of his summer shorts to remind the world of what he went through to earn the ever-present limp.

It's a mark of how much he trusts them all that he would expose himself so much to them. That he would allow his vulnerability to be seen at all. She remembers those days in the hospital, watching him battle between anger at his fate and gratitude to be alive, high on morphine but lucid enough to understand. She remembers not knowing him well enough then to express how grateful she was not to be cutting open his chest with a disposable scalpel. She had settled for comforting Lucien instead, hoping that was enough. Hoping her feelings would somehow domino down to him.

They are close enough now that if such a situation occurred again she is certain she would cry for him right there in the hospital room.

"Do you have any fours?" asks Jean to Bill, and she lets out a smug _a-ha!_ when he grumbles and flicks the card at her. He's been trouncing her all day, so she's not the least bit humble about getting him back. Lucien cracks one eye open, rolls his head to look out from under his paper, smiles at them all, and then dozes off again. They are the picture of a lazy summer, and though Alice has so many questions about what lies beneath the scar on his leg, where sinew and scar tissue raises the flesh in ugly bumps, she finds herself distracted by the quiet comfort of Matthew's company; the small chuckles he lets out as he listens to their conversation and doesn't contribute much; the grins they share like a private joke. They've become close since Christmas, and she likes it very much.

It's beyond dinner time, the sun almost completely set, before they retire inside for a supper of cold meats and salad, and she's sorry they have to move at all.


	2. Chapter 2

_Collaborative fic. Matthew / Alice, pre-ship fluff._

 _1\. Alice has been used before. She is nothing but a woman in a man's world. She has been used by neighbour's son as a diversion for the shopkeeper to steal some candy, her friend in school being interested more in her homework than herself. A fellow student trying to leech of her skill, and to get into her dress, a creep with wandering hands just like Orton had been. All these men bleed into her self-defence, her childhood a dark pit of pain and abuse. The hands and comments never stopped._

 _2\. Munro had tried to get to Lucien, her fate of no importance to him. Each and everyone had used her when they could, with Lucien being the sole exception. He was a broken soul like her, a survivor of his past. She can't get past the memories but she wishes she could. If she wants to be happy for once, to use this chance for respect and tender caring she needs to be able to let go and trust Matthew. She knows him, knows that he is an honest man, a good man._

 _3\. She has seen him work, had listened to Lucien talk about him, has observed him caring for injured women and children. The rough policeman's appreciation for Jean is true and honest. Still the fear of being made a joke, of being used for his amusement is ingrained too deep into her and she wonders if she could ever let him in. – cookie-moi_

She is sure of herself, in her own little world, constructed safely from books and medicine and rebuffing any advances that may compromise her reputation or limit her career. She is confident only as far as the exact walls and dimensions of her small corner of the universe afford her surety in her skills as a doctor. She feels safe, precisely because she does not test.

Trusting Matthew - exploring the potential of the _something_ that sizzles between them in the absence of their newly married friends… trusting Matthew is a very big test. They share quiet dinners that are not named, sequestered at the Blake house, seeking out companionship while the Blakes are exploring the world. She keeps coming over because they are two solitary souls who have somehow made a home in the shelter of their (much braver, in her opinion) friends, and the house is too big for one man to be alone for months. She knows they share that loneliness too. She cannot name the feeling; has never been in love to compare it too, never had such a close male friend to confide in before. She can't name it, but she likes it, so she keeps coming back and hopes it will one day name itself.

There is no pressure with Matthew; no expectation. He doesn't sidle up to her on the couch, or lean in too close while they share the washing up, or use their social interactions as leverage when they inevitably work together. But he also doesn't keep his distance either, comfortable enough to stand close to her while reading autopsy reports, or touch her hand to get her attention. It's the same easy warmth he shows Lucien, their life-long friendship running deep, and she appreciates that he's equally comfortable with her to do the same. And perhaps part of her is waiting for him to show different colours and prove her reticence justified. Perhaps, says a small voice, he is waiting for her guard to be down. Just like all the others. But no. Matthew takes her company in his stride. He makes quips in the office only she will understand, and smiles when she does, and then they laugh about it later when they make dinner side-by-side. He treats her with affection but not expectation, and that alone keeps her coming back to him week after week.

He's not much of a cook - just enough to get by and not starve to death - but he encourages her to try, and to not be deterred by the occasional burnt pastry. _It's just chemistry, really_ , he says one day while stirring a Bechamel sauce, and like that the penny drops. It's just chemistry. Heat to a certain degree to allow for the molecular change, drop the temperature, turn the meat, stir the ingredients to prevent an adverse reaction. In a matter of a couple of weeks she is cooking him dinner on her own, beaming with pride as she serves it up at the kitchen table. Rose is there too, and Matthew claps (exaggerated but not unkind) and they both congratulate her on a job very well done.

Later, when Rose has gone home and the two of them are watching television on the couch in companionable silence, he takes her hand in his, pats it affectionately, then raises it and kisses the backs of her fingers.

"Well done on dinner" he says, his voice sounding so proud of her, but she's far too taken aback to respond right away. He looks at the wide-eyed expression on her face and just smiles in amusement, understanding that if she didn't want to be there she would have left already. He turns back to the television but keeps her hand in his resting on his leg, not at all suggestive. Her first reaction is that he's making fun of her; teasing her. But this is Matthew, and his hand is so warm wrapped around hers, and his face still holds that same smile even as his attention is diverted.

"Like you said" she rasps. "It's just chemistry"

He looks at her again, his smile softening around the edges, eyes flicking very briefly to her lips and back to her eyes, but he doesn't move.

"Yeah. Exactly" he says, and when they both look back to the screen she shuffles against his side and rests her head on his shoulder, and they don't move until it's absolutely imperative that she get home. And she realises, as she's driving familiar streets, that she doesn't need to wonder if she can let him in. She already has. And it feels wonderful.


	3. Chapter 3

_Alice taking care of Matthew when he is sick. - (cookie-moi)_

~0~

The second time she sees his leg, he's been shot at, and though Lucien would have undoubtedly tended to him, said doctor is gallivanting around Europe with his new wife, so the job is left to her. She's not nearly as skilled with her stitching as a war-time surgeon, but the bullet only grazed his thigh, so she's pretty sure she doesn't need to be.

The awkward placement of the wound means he has to remove his work slacks for her to get to it; he seems uncomfortable, but in the presence of a medical problem she is in work mode. After all, she's seen men's legs before, and usually far more naked than this. He refused the hospital for something he called _trivial_ , but she insisted she at least have a look at it for him, which led to him sitting on the edge of the morgue table wearing only his boxers from the waist down.

Sure enough he's right; the wound is a nasty nick, cauterised by the heat of the bullet, but not life-threatening. Like a bad papercut it will sting and annoy for a couple of weeks, but it's relatively small. She cleans it for him anyway, swabbing his leg with the air of a woman who knows what she's doing, and he tries to look anywhere but at the top of her head, her bob falling to cover her face. She bandages him up with gauze, tells him it won't need to be on there long.

They pause for moment. Her fingers, now done with their task, move a few inches down to his scar before she can think better of it. His first instinct is to push her away, yell at her, and run. But he tamps it down because if nothing else, Alice is his friend. And she is a doctor. And he doesn't really mind all that much that she sees his flaws. Her fingers barely touch his skin as she traces the raised bump of his scar. He can't feel it – all the nerves there are gone – but he feels a shiver go across the back of his neck at her attentions.

She's been tending to him all week. A nasty seasonal cold passed around town and Matthew caught the tail end of it the past week. With the Blakes recently departed for their honeymoon and work still needing to be done, she'd taken it upon herself to call in on him every night and cook for him, using her new-found skills in the kitchen to make his life just a little bit easier, since he refused to take time off work.

Neither can deny they enjoy the company of the other, so it wasn't a total hardship.

She's brash and abrasive, thrusting soup at him and demanding he eat it _to prevent dehydration and eventual exhaustion, since you refuse to stay in bed._ There is no tact in her delivery. But he prefers that. Direct people are usually, in his experience, far more honest. And he knows she only does it because she cares about him enough to bother. It's quite lovely having someone care enough to do anything, let alone come around and cook for him.

And now here she is, touching the ugly scar that reminds him of his limitations; the stand-in for all the things he can't do anymore. But she isn't repulsed; she's fascinated, and maybe even a little bit sympathetic. She has seen the pain he is in, and he has even done some of his exercises for his leg while she's been around. It's no secret what he has been through and he is always mildly astonished that nothing about it pushes her away. She looks up at him, not at all taken aback that their noses are mere inches from each other.

"Does it bother you often?" she asks. Her voice is very soft, and intrinsically kind.

"Not as much anymore" he says back. He is open and unashamed about it for possibly the first time since it happened. "So long as I keep up my exercises"

"That's good" she replies. She stands back, takes a cursory glance at the bandage over the bullet wound, and then looks him in the eye once more. "You can put your pants back on now. I'm all done"

The amusement painted on his face causes a hint of a smirk to appear on hers; she knows exactly why her words are funny, and he likes that they can share this moment without anything untoward underneath it. She turns around while he redresses himself, busies herself putting away the gauze and scissors. She waits patiently while he does up his belt, and laughs at him a little when she sees his work pants now have a hole in the leg, the white gauze underneath obvious. He rolls his eyes at the annoyance of it, and then they walk quietly out of the morgue together.

"I should say, Matthew" she starts, her head bowed as they walk side-by-side at his slower pace. "I'm glad the wound was so small"

"Well, I'm all about making your life easier" he quips.

He's surprised by the gentle hand on his arm, stopping him from walking further, and he turns to face her with a questioning look. Her face, normally so neutral, is open and sad and searching him out. Her eyes shine with affection for him. He's seen her be this way with Lucien, when comforting him or delivering bad news, but it's disarming to see that look on her face and know that it's solely for him.

"What I mean is" she says, voice full of emotion. "I'm really glad you're okay"

He takes a moment to hear her. Really hear her. He takes a moment to be grateful the sonofabitch was a crap shot and that it wasn't a few inches deeper or into an artery. He smiles at Alice instead of replying, but it's not enough, so he pulls her hand off his arm and holds it in his own, giving it a firm squeeze. She smiles back at him, and they understand each other.

But in a move that shocks him, she is suddenly leaning in with her hand still clasped in his, and she kisses his cheek, lingering there just a fraction longer than a peck.

"Don't you go dying on me, Matthew Lawson" she says, standing back and smiling at him unabashedly, a pretty blush colouring the apples of her cheeks.

"I'll do my best" he says back, dumbfounded.

They turn to keep walking, and at the same time – one equally initiative as the other – she puts her hand in the crook of his elbow, as though he's escorting her after a date.


	4. Chapter 4

_Matthew taking care of Alice when she is so tired after a case she can barely stand.. - (cookie-moi)_

 _~0~_

She's exhausted. Not the kind of exhausted people espouse after two days of decent hard work; she's medically and clinically exhausted, to the point of near-collapse. In the absence of Lucien, her workload has doubled. Wallace was quickly fired from his position for his incompetence, and Alice was offered the job as a stop-gap measure. The idea was to look for a replacement surgeon, but nobody wants to make the move to Ballarat for the sake of a couple of month's work, and her skills are enough to cater to a mortuary. So the stop-gap measure turned into a not-quite-formal secondment to the position for the duration of Lucien's honeymoon, which amounted to her carrying her new duties on top of her old.

She wants to be incensed at Matthew, and claim he did it out of a favour to her, or to curry favour with her, but she knows that's not true. He's not sentimental enough to do such a thing if she wasn't truly competent, so instead she has to concede that, between her and Wallace, she is definitely the more thorough replacement for Lucien.

It's flattering in a professional sense, but does nothing for her sleep pattern. And on top of the seasonal cold she caught, her body is wiped of all energy. She's not sure how Lucien does it. So when she walks through the police station late one night to drop off her _very urgent cannot wait_ report, she's not surprised to see Matthew's brow furrow in concern when he sees her. She must look as terrible as she feels.

"Are you alright?" he asks. His voice comes out soft.

She nods at him, but her answer is undermined by her sway when she stops. She places her fingertips against his desk to steady herself.

"The late nights are catching up to me, I think" she says.

"Alice, I'm sorry"

He stands, much easier than he used to, and hobbles around to her, concern all over his face and a hand cupping her shoulder. She meets his gaze and gives him a tired smile that doesn't reach her eyes. She barely notices the hand against her shoulder anymore, the two of them past the point of comfort with physical proximity. It's almost a given.

"I'll be fine" she says.

"I'll drive you home" he replies, firm and unwavering.

She desperately wants to argue, not least because her car is at work and accepting will require a lift back into work tomorrow. She wants to say his leg precludes him, but it doesn't. She definitely doesn't want to become a charity case, unable to handle the workload that Lucien Blake carries so easily, but even that is a fallacy in light of her pulling double duty. The fact of the matter is, she is exhausted, and has no good reason to refuse him that doesn't boil down to pride.

So she nods, sheepish, and meets his firm gaze. "Thank you"

He shuffles his papers into a neat pile, her report on top ready for his first meeting of the day in the morning, and switches off his desk lamp. The only other light is the hallway, and in the darkness the mood suddenly feels secretive and clandestine.

"Have you eaten?" asks Matthew, leading her out ahead of him with his free arm held out.

She pauses a moment, cocks her head, and then turns a surprised gaze on him. "I completely forgot about dinner" she says. She's shocked at herself. She's not a ravenous person, but she never usually misses a meal without at least noticing.

"I have something at home, I'll make you some"

"Oh no, Matthew, it's far too late" she protests. It's nearer bedtime than dinner time. She doesn't want the fuss.

"You didn't have lunch either" he says, factually, as though it's normal to notice a co-worker's eating habits. He's right, of course, but even so.

"I really don't know-"

"I insist" he says again, firmly. He doesn't even look at her as he speaks, just keeps walking towards the exit. Those words, from literally anyone else in the world, would have her hackles rising. Not even Lucien Blake himself dare speak with her that way and her first reaction is to turn around and shirtfront him for his behaviour, or at the very least glower menacingly. But something makes her pause, and she remembers the days she spent coming around to the Blake house to cook for him when he was sick, insistent that he eat something decent despite his protests. She remembers fussing over his lunch and thrusting glasses of water at him so he never got dehydrated, and reading up on all manner of small home remedies she felt had practical scientific application. She remembers curling up on the armchair, him on the couch, the television on while she read a good book, the companionable silence genuinely comforting.

She suddenly, alarmingly, understands where he's coming from, and the realisation leaves her with wide eyes and her mouth almost hanging open.

Either Matthew doesn't notice, or he expected such a thing from her and is ignoring it, because he doesn't stop. Just hobbles a little further – if a little slower – down the corridor towards the exit.

She's caught between fury and flattery. Her heels echo as she takes long strides to catch him, and when she's level again he looks her way from the corner of his eye, the way a swimmer breathes under their arm mid-stroke. There's a smirk on his face that is knowing, but not unkind. It's the look that says _I got you pegged_ and isn't ashamed of it.

"I'm not sure I have the energy to go back to your place and then home later" she admits. The thought of two car trips makes her bones ache. Another wave of fatigue washes over her, reminding her that she's at the point of exhaustion where she feels vaguely nauseous.

"Well then" he says, reaching for the door and swinging it open for her. "How about you just stay over?"

Before she can vocalise how scandalised she is, he adds, "The house is empty enough to find you a spare room, I'm sure. And I can lend you some spare jammies"

They're standing outside the station by now. In one direction is her car – a possible accident in the making, by the way she's travelling tonight, but safe and guarded. And in the other direction is his car, which will take her to his home, where he will cook her a decent meal, make her tea, offer her a neatly folded pile of pyjamas she can wear, and then he will shuffle her into a spare bed for the night. Indecent, perhaps, but far more appealing.

She's never been in a situation with a literal fork in the road before. She doesn't like it.

Of course there is only one answer. She doesn't give him the satisfaction of saying it out loud. Instead she ignores the smug look on his face, takes the arm he is dramatically holding her way, rolls her eyes to high heaven, and then allows him to walk her to his car. If not for his limp she could swear there's a spring in his step.


End file.
